


A Kind Gesture

by chibistarlyte



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Community: sherlockbbc_fic, Food Poisoning, Gen, Hangover, Kink Meme, Post Reichenbach, Sickfic, Vomiting, Withdrawal, at least the last part is post reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 19:12:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/677901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibistarlyte/pseuds/chibistarlyte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times John looked after Sherlock when he was throwing up, and one time Sherlock returned the favour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Kind Gesture

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for a prompt in the Sherlock kink meme in which John takes care of a puking Sherlock, and then Sherlock returns the favour. This was a challenge to write because I have a phobia of vomiting myself, but I still thought the prompt was interesting and decided to fill it. I guess it goes without saying that this fic contains copious amounts of being sick, so tread carefully if you're easily grossed out by that kind of thing.
> 
> There's a bit of Johnlock at the end if you squint, but this is mainly a bromance/pre-slash fic.
> 
> Many thanks to Aki for being my wonderful beta! This fic has yet to be Brit-picked. Please feel free to point out any and all errors to me!
> 
> Enjoy.

1.

“This is… _miserable_ ,” Sherlock manages to slur out before he leans over the toilet bowl again, heaving the contents of his stomach until there’s nothing left to heave.

John just smiles a small, pitiful smile as he combs his fingers through Sherlock’s curls and pulls them back from his face. He bites down several retorts about cleaning up experiment leftovers before making food—the choice phrase “I told you so” is right on the tip of his tongue—because he knows this is a bad time to make a scathing remark. John isn’t cruel enough to patronize Sherlock while he’s vomiting into the toilet.

He stays there behind the taller man, holding his hair out of the way and rubbing soothing circles across his back until several minutes pass without incident. Sherlock is shaking, hugging the porcelain with weakened arms. Praying to whatever deity that Sherlock won’t puke again in the next two minutes, John pulls a flannel from the cabinet and wets it with cold water from the tap. Kneeling down, he gently lifts Sherlock’s head and wipes the washcloth over his ashen face, making extra sure to clean up the small bits of dribble and bile still staining his lips.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but the pathetic look in his eyes says enough. John knows the man appreciates his efforts, and that makes him all the more determined to keep an eye on the insufferable genius and nurse him back to health.

At the very least, he hopes that next time Sherlock will think to sanitize the kitchen before attempting to prepare food.

 

.

 

2.

For some reason, Sherlock deemed it appropriate to puke into the bathtub rather than into the toilet this time around. Now John is at his side once again, keeping his hair back and running his fingers along the curve of Sherlock’s spine. He doesn’t want to think about trying to clean the vomit out of the tub.

He also doesn’t want to think about cleaning up the spilled tea and sour milk all over the kitchen floor.

“I told you the milk had gone off,” he mutters, not really intending for Sherlock to hear him. Not that he really could, anyway, with the splatter of sick hitting the tub, or the loud, wretched retching noises.

Sherlock all but collapses against the side of the bathtub, clutching the edges for dear life and spitting bile out of his mouth. His breathing comes in short gasps as he tries to gulp in air. John already has a flannel ready for cleaning up, just like the last time. Once Sherlock’s face is wiped down, he tries to get himself to stand. It’s no surprise that his legs give out beneath him, and John is right there to catch him before he hits the floor.

John briefly considers just carrying Sherlock out of the loo and to his bedroom, but Sherlock just slumps against him and he decides otherwise. Though they’ll have to get out of there soon, because the stench of the vomit in the tub is starting to stink up the place.

“We need milk,” Sherlock says wryly, his words muffled from his face in John’s jumper. John just lets out a half-laugh, half-sigh at Sherlock’s effort at humor. After a few beats, he tries to maneuver his flatmate up onto the closed toilet seat so he can at least get Sherlock to brush his teeth.

“I’ll pick some up later,” he promises. But first, he has a lot of cleaning up to do.

 

.

 

3.

“ _John_ …”

The groaning of his name pulls John out of his almost-sleep. He’s alert almost instantly, his senses homing in on his flatmate sprawled out over the sofa. He grabs the bin he’d just washed out an hour ago and springs into action. Moments later, Sherlock is leaning over the side of the sofa and spewing whatever’s left in his stomach into the liner John’s just put into the bin.

It’s been touch-and-go like this for several hours now. Sherlock has caught some nasty bug, and John can’t get him to keep anything down. Not even water, which is worrisome because if Sherlock gets too dehydrated, John will have to take him to the A&E. He may be a doctor, but there’s only so much he can do with the limited equipment in their home.

He combs Sherlock’s hair back and massages his scalp with his fingertips, just waiting for Sherlock to finish this round of vomiting. A couple minutes later leaves Sherlock gasping into the bin, some punctuated moments of dry heaving because there is absolutely nothing left in his stomach to puke up.

After cleaning out the bin again, John brings Sherlock a glass of water. It’s a struggle to get the poor, ill man to sit up enough to drink it down without choking on it. John urges him to drink in small sips—he’s sure it’ll be back up again in an hour, but at least going slowly won’t upset Sherlock’s stomach as much as chugging it down would. Sherlock makes it through about half the glass before he can’t take anymore, so John tucks him in and sets the glass on the coffee table for later.

Once he’s sure Sherlock’s asleep again, John meanders back over to his chair. He considers reading, or maybe updating his blog, but it’s gone four in the morning already and he’s really, _really_ tired. So he just leans back in his chair and closes his eyes, hoping for at least a half an hour of rest before Sherlock needs him again. In his half-awake state, he almost misses the quiet utterance of, “Thank you, John,” from across the room.

 

.

 

4.

John’s had plenty of practice taking care of people, being a doctor and all. Even before that, he’d spent so much time looking after Harry in the beginning stages of her alcoholism, being a kind and supportive brother while she puked her brains out and lamented about what a horrible sister she was, and how she promised to change. He’s even dealt with a sick Sherlock on a few occasions, which he’s been more than equipped to handle.

Withdrawal, however, is something he’s never really been trained to deal with.

Some low-class criminals thought it’d be a good idea to kidnap Sherlock and inject him with some sort of drug—heroin, as they find out after apprehending the morons—and they hadn’t given him another dose in several hours. By the time John and the Yarders locate Sherlock in an abandoned warehouse, he’s already a shaking, quivering mess. He’s running a dangerously high fever, and he won’t let John—or anyone—touch him because everything _hurts_ , he keeps saying. Lestrade has an ambulance on the way, but in the meantime, John has to take care of Sherlock and he’s not entirely sure how.

Then Sherlock starts vomiting all over the ground.

John has to hold his friend up to keep him from collapsing in a puddle of his own sick. Sherlock can’t support himself, his entire body convulsing and John has to hold him close, Sherlock’s back to his chest, as the poor man heaves again. John keeps whispering into Sherlock’s ear, reassuring little nothings he’s not sure are even helping at this point.

There’s some spittle dangling off Sherlock’s lip and he spits to get rid of it. He lets out a series of painful groans, trying to fight John off but too weak to accomplish much. John just tries to hold him steady, and takes a few steps back when Sherlock stops fighting him. He lowers them both to the ground, away from the vomit, and holds Sherlock close to him. The sirens of the ambulance blare in the distance.

“J-John…” Sherlock says, his hands grasping and pulling at John’s coat.

“Shh, it’s all right, Sherlock, I’m here,” he says soothingly, running his hand up and down Sherlock’s back. Some of the Yarders are starting to gather around them but John stops them in their tracks with a glare and a shake of his head. They seem to get the message, and just leave the two of them be until the paramedics arrive.

 

.

 

5.

It’s really hard to take care of someone else puking their brains out when John feels like doing the same himself. His stomach is gurgling, flip-flopping around angrily, and it’s all he can do to keep down his lunch while Sherlock upchucks into the toilet. He goes through the same motions of holding Sherlock’s ridiculously long hair back out of his face, rubbing his back, all the while trying to tune out the sound of vomit splashing into the toilet.

God, food poisoning is a bitch.

“We are never…ever…eating at that restaurant again,” Sherlock manages to say after his spewing session. He reaches up to flush the toilet before lying himself down on the cold, hard tile of the bathroom floor.

“Agreed,” John says with a small nod. He feels his entire body go cold, all the colour drains from his face. He leans over the toilet himself this time, ready to follow in Sherlock’s footsteps and throw up. He hasn’t thrown up in years. Huh.

It never comes, though—just a bit of bile that John spits into the toilet. His stomach is still very much displeased but nothing seems to be coming up.

“Are you all right?” Sherlock asks from the floor, his voice raspy.

“…Yeah,” John replies, resting his head on the side of the toilet bowl. The piercing coldness helps ebb away the nausea.

 

.

 

+1

“You…complete…utter…”

And that’s all John can get out before he’s vomiting, halfway missing the toilet and slopping sick onto the floor. His head is pounding, and the strain from puking isn’t making his migraine any better. How much did he have to drink last night? He can’t remember having a hangover this bad since his days in uni. He’s getting a bit too old for this sort of thing.

He lets out a few groan-laced coughs and nearly dunks his head into the toilet bowl. Ugh, this is _miserable_. His stomach is churning violently, ripping itself apart. He can feel snot leaking from his nostrils, but before he can rip some toilet paper to wipe it away he’s back to puking again. It’s even worse the second time around.

But there’s a hand on his back and another hand running over his scalp, and this makes him feel just a little bit better.

John slumps against the toilet, unbidden tears gathering in the corners of his eyes and rolling down his cheeks. They’re slow and silent at first until he’s full-on sobbing, a complete mess on the bathroom floor. Still, Sherlock is rubbing his back and telling him, “Shh, it’s all right, I’m here,” but it most definitely is not all right.

“Three. Fucking. Years,” John chokes out. His stomach is doing backflips again and he moves himself over the toilet, ready for another go and determined not to miss this time. Nothing comes, though, and he counts it as a blessing. Just as it’s a blessing—no, a _miracle_ —that Sherlock is here, with him right now, trying to comfort him the same way he’d comforted Sherlock all those times before.

He doesn’t know how it happened, but suddenly John finds himself sprawled out on the floor and staring up at Sherlock. Living, breathing Sherlock. John reaches a trembling hand up and flattens it against Sherlock’s chest, a steady—if slightly elevated—heartbeat beneath his touch.

“Sherlock…” he breathes, and an odd sense of peace washes over him. He still feels like shit, and this bloody hangover will probably last the rest of the day, but for now he’s content to just lie here. Knowing that Sherlock is here, that Sherlock is alive, is enough.

He feels lips brush against his forehead before passing out on the floor.


End file.
